Impressive how easily people can be blinded by money. You could be enemies today, but the moment you showed them you could buy their lives in a snap, everything changed. It almost made Regan laugh.
He stared at the woman in front of him. She was covered in blood—a gunshot wound in her forehead. There was no life left in her eyes, and the way her skin had begun to pale as the blood drained from her... it made him feel alive.
Pathetic, he thought.
Being strong alone wasn't enough to survive this f*cked-up world. You could appear strong on the outside, but inside, you could be drowning in humility and self-doubt—and that would drag you straight to your downfall.
A failure that could kill you, especially in his world... where death was part of his daily routine.
"Regan," a voice called from the shadows, and he turned to see Cain leaning casually against the doorway of the basement, a faint smirk playing across his face.
"Yes..." he muttered in a flat, controlled monotone, sliding his gun into the back of his jeans as if it were second nature.
"It's time," Cain said, his words calm but carrying an unspoken warning, and then he was gone, leaving a silence that pressed against Regan like a weight.
Taking a steadying breath, Regan squared his shoulders and followed Cain upstairs, where the living room was already alive with the presence of his men... an assembled cadre of Italian mafiosos, each exuding a quiet menace, all of them preparing to accompany him on the trip to the Asia, ready for whatever awaited them there.
It was finally time to go back.
It had been half a year since he left that country. He had never wanted to return, but it was never his decision where he stayed. Going back wasn't the escape he wanted from his f*cked-up job.
It was going to be a pain in the ass, living again in a place where he never truly belonged.
Regan remained silent on the drive to the airport, the hum of the engine filling the heavy air around him. Once aboard the private plane, he sank into the leather seat, staring out the window as the world below shrank away, carrying him toward the Philippines—a place where he would spend years bending the law to his will, carving out his own sense of justice with his own hands.
Becoming someone important was barely the beginning for Regan. The rush that surged through him with blood on his hands made him feel untouchable, a raw, intoxicating power that no one else could understand.
The way people looked at him—fear, awe, and submission all mingled in their eyes was like a drug, addictive and insatiable.
Every act, every moment of control, sharpened something inside him, a dark thrill that gnawed at the edges of his humanity. The peculiar satisfaction of dominating, of bending others to his will, was a sensation so intense and complete that words could barely contain it. At that moment, Regan realized he had crossed a line, and there was no turning back.
He was no longer the man the world had known; he was a force to be reckoned with, and anyone who underestimated him would soon understand that fear was his most loyal ally.
